Seiji Yoshida’s Houses with a Story isn’t a graphic novel per se, but more like an architectural survey. Its pages are filled with floor plans and cutaway drawings of imaginary homes and buildings that are delightful, fantastical, and occasionally whimsical. The “World-Weary Astronomer’s Residence” (seen on the cover) is a monastic dwelling perched high atop a rock formation while the “Reserved Mechanic’s Cottage” makes for a pleasantly solitary life on a Montana lake. Located in the Tibetan mountains, the “Library of Lost Books” is a sprawling complex stuffed with tomes and possibly connected to another world while the humble “Clinic in the Woods” blends classic Japanese structures with Western influences. (And those are but four examples.) Yoshida draws inspiration from a variety of cultures and time periods for his designs, each of which is accompanied by lovely paintings, fun notes highlighting all manner of delightful and clever details, and a short intro to the dwellings’ inhabitants that sparks the imagination. Indeed, reading Houses with a Story left me in a constant state of “I want to go to there.”
My Cultural Diet
Another day, another graphic novel from the incomparable duo that is Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips. Where the Body Was feels a bit like a minor work compared to something like The Fade Out. However, its ’80s-set tale of suburban ennui, bored housewives and illicit affairs, young romance and heartache, and — because this is Ed Brubaker we’re talking about — a shocking murder mystery that undoes everyone’s lives (for better or worse) is not without its affecting moments. Particularly when Brubaker has the characters’ older selves break the fourth wall to reflect on that tumultuous period in their lives.
My Ed Brubaker/Sean Phillips fandom continues with this journey through the seamy underbelly of post-WW2 Hollywood. The Fade Out’s story of murder, corrupt studio execs, fixers, blacklisted writers, FBI investigations, and desperate starlets is just about as noir as it gets, and thoroughly deconstructs the glitz and glamour that often surrounds our notions of “classic” Tinseltown. There are no heroes in Brubaker and Phillips’ story, just desperate and deeply flawed individuals railing against an implacable system that protects and benefits the rich and powerful. Suffice to say, The Fade Out is a bleak story, maybe even Brubaker and Phillips’ bleakest to date. But it’s executed so well that you feel compelled to keep turning the pages until you arrive at the final, despair-filled panel.
I’m not gonna lie; I checked out Dracula, Motherf**ker based on the title alone, because how could I not? This spin on the classic Dracula story moves from 19th century Vienna to Los Angeles circa 1974, where a desperate crime scene photographer finds himself trapped between the vampire lord, his ex-wives, and his new wives. Erica Henderson’s artwork is wonderfully lurid and psychedelic as befitting a ’70s vampire story, and Alex de Campi’s storyline piques the imagination and leave you wanting more — in a good way. (I also appreciated de Campi’s afterward, where she delves a bit more into the book’s feminist themes in light of Trump and Weinstein, her perspective on monsters, and the book’s anime influence.)
Unlike many of Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips’ other titles, Bad Weekend isn’t a noir-ish, hard-boiled tale of the criminal underworld. Rather, it’s a prickly but heartfelt ode to another kind of underworld: the comic book industry. Hal Crane is a comic book legend. He’s also a drunk, a cynic, and something of an asshole, but he kind of has good reason to be given how publishers have treated him over the years. Which means that babysitting him during a comic book convention is going to be a lot harder than it sounds. On the one hand, Bad Weekend confirms all of your fears of how bad the comic industry can be, filled with backstabbing publishers and artists who work their fingers to the bone for pennies. On the other hand, it’s also a tribute to the art itself, and how even a bitter, manipulative jerk like Hal Crane can create something transcendent.
Max Winters is a down-on-his-luck author in 1930s New York who specializes in writing pulp stories about cowboys and outlaws in the Wild West. Unbeknownst to anyone else, though, his fanciful adventures aren’t fiction, but rather, draw from his own sordid history. Max’s downtrodden life soon takes an interesting turn, however, when an unexpected figure from his past comes asking for a favor. Despite its short length, Pulp’s storyline caught me by surprise on at least three occasions — a very good thing. I really couldn’t predict how things would turn out for Max and I stayed hooked until the final — and in hindsight, inevitable — panel. I became a fan of Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips thanks to their work on Reckless, and Pulp is more of the same: storytelling that’s hard-boiled, nostalgic, and sympathetic all at once.
Earlier this month, I read — and thoroughly enjoyed — Atelier Sentô’s Festival of Shadows, which inspired me to track down this earlier work of theirs. Onibi follows a couple of Europeans as they travel to remote corners of Japan in search of yōkai spirits, which they hope to capture with the help of a supposedly magical camera. I didn’t enjoy Onibi as much as Festival of Shadows, but it’s still a delightful work that very much reads like a love letter to Japan and some of its more colorful inhabitants. As such, it made me want to return to Japan and explore some of those same remote corners, as well.
Every year, residents in a remote Japanese village are tasked with helping the recently deceased come to terms with their death and move on to the afterlife. It’s a fraught and difficult job, and it becomes all the more so for Naoko — who’s already questioning her rural existence — when she develops feelings for her latest charge. At first blush, Festival of Shadows feels like a typical “girl meets ghost” paranormal romance, but it develops some intriguing twists as Naoko makes some startling discoveries about her charge — and herself. Atelier Sentô — the creative duo of Cecile Brun and Olivier Pichard — have conjured up a delightful ghost story characterized by painterly artwork and wonderfully detailed illustrations. I look forward to their next title.
I daresay that the vast majority of those who read The Mysteries, myself included, will do so because it was written by Bill Watterson, of Calvin and Hobbes fame. Indeed, if it were written by anyone else, this slight fantasy fable would probably fly under the radar. That’s not to say that it’s bad, just that it’s a very far cry from Calvin and Hobbes… sort of. If one were inclined, one could draw some parallels with those strips where Calvin and/or Hobbes critiqued modern society’s dismissal of wonder and imagination — themes that are very present in The Mysteries’ seventy pages or so. As for the artwork, which Watterson created in collaboration with caricaturist John Kascht, it’s an interesting and darkly beautiful blend of paintings, models, collage work, and whatnot that has a very tangible and physical quality to it.
The American Civil War raged on for nearly fifty years, leading to a divided nation that lives under the shadow of a terrible prophecy. Meanwhile, three of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse have returned and now wander the wartorn land, searching for Death in order to kill him and raise his son as the Beast of the Apocalypse, which is set to happen any day now. With that as a premise, it’s safe to say that East of West is far from upbeat. Jonathan Hickman (Secret Wars, House of X, Fantastic Four) spins an elaborate apocalyptic tale filled with corrupt leaders and politicans jockeying for power, no matter the cost, and Nick Dragotta’s (Fantastic Four, X-Men, The Amazing Spider-Man) detailed artwork is suitably vivid and bloody. As a work of world building, East of West is impressive, but like The Fellspyre Chronicles, the unrelenting grim-ness is just that: unrelenting. So much so that the ending feels a bit perfunctory and hollow.
I’m not exactly sure how I learned about This Was Our Pact, but I’m glad I did. Written and illustrated by Ryan Andrews, it’s a delightful tale of friendship and fantasy as a group of kids go on a night-time bike ride through an increasingly strange countryside — a ride that will change some of them forever. There are some moments in This Was Our Pact — specifically, the friends’ encounters with a talking bear in search of his family’s fishing hole and a kooky witch named Madam Majestic — that feel like something out of a Miyazaki film. Which is just about the highest praise I can give. Andrews’ artwork, which is predominantly cast in shades of blue, as befitting his nocturnally set tale, are beautiful and evocative, and lead up to a final scene that perfectly encapsulates the sense of fun, wonder, and adventure that ought to define childhood friendships.
Author Sourya may be French-Laotian, but Talli, Daughter of the Moon is heavily influenced by Japanese manga, from the character designs to the tonal shifts. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, not in this case. The fantasy tale of a young noblewoman on the run and trying to better understand her mysterious powers — powers that could spell ruin for the entire kingdom — hits plenty of tropes, but Sourya’s storytelling and artwork keeps things fresh and inviting.
I feel like the title alone — The Fellspyre Chronicles — tells you everything you can expect here. That is, epic high fantasy replete with wizards, elves, and barbarians. (It should come as no surprise that the back of this volume contains a bunch of 5E-compatible resources inspired by the comic’s massive world, including monsters, races, maps, and character classes.) Phillip K. Johnson’s world-building is truly impressive, and Riccardo Federici’s artwork is consistently rich and stunning. So why not a higher score? The story itself — a group of adventurers trying save their world from an otherworldly evil while also atoning for the sins of their past — is often unremittingly grim and unpleasant, and with few exceptions, the characters are hardly a likable or sympathetic bunch. As impressed as I was by Johnson’s sense of scope, I often found it hard to actually care about the “heroes” venturing forth into his elaborate fantasy world.
A detective’s latest case becomes something much more than a simple murder mystery when the victim turns out to be a god. Good thing he’s a… wait for it… cosmic detective. Even so, he may still be ill-prepared for the revelations that his investigation uncovers, revelations that could challenge everything he knows about existence. Given that Cosmic Detective was co-written by Jeff Lemire (Black Hammer, Gideon Falls), you can expect a fairly downbeat story. Although it doesn’t feature any eldritch entities, the cosmicism on display in Cosmic Detective’s pages — as rendered by David Rubin’s mind-bending artwork (which pays tribute to Jack Kirby) — is definitely Lovecraftian in spirit, and reminiscent of Caitlín R. Kiernan’s Agents of Dreamland. Interestingly enough, my church is currently studying the Book of Ecclesiastes, and Qoheleth’s existentialism actually jibes quite nicely with Lemire and Matt Kindt’s (Dept. H, MIND MGMT) story and helped me consider its themes in a new light. Even so, best to avoid Cosmic Detective unless you’re up for pondering the potential meaninglessness of existence.
An astronaut stranded on an apparently deserted planet with her robot companion makes a fascinating discovery even as she must battle alien marauders and the planet’s bizarre phenomena in this first graphic novel from Dan McDaid (Doctor Who, Firefly, Judge Dredd). At the risk of damning it with faint praise, I liked Dega more than I didn’t, but it’s very short and slight. If you enjoy survival tales and want something to help pass the afternoon, then Dega will be right up your alley.
I checked this one out from the library on a whim simply because the premise was intriguing: a group of kids at a summer weight-loss camp become amateur sleuths after witnessing the gruesome murder of a beloved camp counselor. And as they try to determine the killer’s identity, they uncover shocking secrets lurking just beneath Camp Bloom’s seemingly idyllic surface. It plays out a bit like a Scooby-Doo episode, albeit with some queer themes and discussions of body image. In the end, Dead Weight is just OK. Of the four main characters, I only found one really interesting (the tech-obsessed Black nerd who struggles with his family’s health history), and when the killer’s identity and motivations are finally revealed, they’re rather mundane and underwhelming. I bumped up my score a bit because Dead Weight’s heart is clearly in the right place, but I was also left wanting more.
Inspired by classic Breton folk tales, The Daughters of Ys spins a dark tale about two sisters driven apart by grief over their mother’s death — one heads off into the wilderness while the other becomes embroiled in court politics — and the roles they play in the fate of the doomed city of Ys. I’m a sucker for well-done riffs on classic stories; while The Daughters of Ys is nothing revelatory, it’s still a very enjoyable read for fans of somber fairy tales. M. T. Anderson’s prose has a Gaiman-esque quality (not a bad thing!) while Jo Rioux’s painterly images evoke elements of Celtic artwork.
Back in the early ’90s, my friend Eric ran a bulletin board system (BBS) where I spent hours discussing music, anime, and video games with folks that I never met in real life. (It was an obvious precursor to the internet and I thought it’d be the coolest to run a BBS of my own. I never did, but I still wrote up documentation for one.) There was the thrill of connection, but also the thrill of danger and rebellion, particularly when you found documents with titles like “101 Ways to Wreak Havoc In Your School” that included instructions for all sorts of nefarious (and illegal) activities. Incredible Doom captures that sense of excitement as it follows several kids in a small podunk town who connect through a BBS, and become involved in the local DIY punk scene. But Incredible Doom isn’t just a nerdy celebration of technology; it’s also a bittersweet story of family trauma, first love, and the inevitable heartache that comes with realizing just how difficult it’ll be to hold on to your youthful idealism. I wish some of the series’ storylines had been explored a bit more fully, but if you ever spent any time on a BBS, making zines, and/or listening to punk/alternative music in the early ’90s, then I think you’ll feel like Incredible Doom was written just for you.
Inspired by a Tibetan folktale, Shuna’s Journey has many of the usual Hayao Miyazaki tropes (e.g., fantastical settings, a strong female protagonist) and touches on some of his pet themes, including both humanity’s relationship with nature and its proclivity for violence and exploitation. At the same time, it has a fairy tale-esque tone, particularly as the titular hero enters the strange lands of the god-folk — but as is Miyazaki’s wont, it’s tinged with darkness and mystery. Originally published in 1983, it might be tempting to dismiss Shuna’s Journey as a precursor to Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind and Princess Mononoke — as if you’d ever really want to dismiss anything by Miyazaki, that is. But even with all of its familiarity, I was caught up within just a few pages thanks to Miyazaki’s gorgeous watercolors, poetic storytelling, and ability to pack so much life and energy into his illustrations. First Second Books’ edition contains a brief afterword by Miyazaki as well as some notes by translater Alex Dudok de Wit that offer some helpful insights into the story’s creation and themes.
I checked out Malcolm Kid and the Perfect Song from the library on a whim, and I’m glad I did. Austin Paramore’s debut graphic novel is the charming story of Malcolm Kid, an aspiring young musician who suddenly finds himself in possession of a keyboard that’s haunted by the spirit of an old jazz pianist. The only way to set the spirit free is to find and play… wait for it… the perfect song. However, that will require Malcolm to reconnect with an old friend, explore his town’s history, stand up to his demanding father, and confront some family tragedies. Oh, and deal with a Mephistopheles-like character who takes a great interest in Malcolm’s burgeoning talent. Paramore packs a lot into his story and does a fine job of balancing it all. Meanwhile, Sarah Bollinger’s delightful artwork keeps things light with some manga-like flourishes, but never at the expense of the story’s drama and emotion.